


Suits You, Sir

by 74days



Series: Meet-Cute AU's [31]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, Meet-Cute, Painter Steve, Painting, Rich Bucky, Suits, art gallery, rich Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 05:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3435413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/74days/pseuds/74days
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is waiting on his Blind Date showing up - he's got two things to go on.<br/>1: He's good looking<br/>2: He wears a lot of black</p><p>And damn... yes on both counts!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suits You, Sir

He’s pulling on his shirt collar for the 4th time in as many minutes as he scans the room. Steve trusts that Sam wouldn’t lie about his clothes, and he honestly didn’t think he’s send him on a blind date unless he looked at least presentable – but the shirt was tighter than anything he owned.

“That’s because it actually fits, Steve.” Sam had argued in the store as he made Steve try on every item that caught his eye. “You’ve been living in clothes three sizes too big since I met you, man. You gotta at least try to wear something that fits.” He didn’t bother to mention to Sam that the reason he didn’t wear ‘clothes that fit’ was because he hated going into stores and asking if they had any extra smalls in stock. But Sam had taken him into a nice store, with a man who looked like he’d been steam pressed into his suit.

It took nearly two hours for the salesman to find something that he deemed ‘the perfect fit’ and although Steve normally didn’t feel very confident about his appearance, he certainly had to admit that the suit looked… well…  ** _really_**  good. It was an indigo blue, with a crisp white shirt, and although he thought it was a little too bright, he didn’t feel like he stood out too much.

The bar was busy – it seemed a really popular place for people to meet, and Steve was sitting at the bar. He’d already been carded, but he’d come to expect that in most places. When you barely stand over 5 foot 2 and weigh just less that a bag of sugar, it happened a lot. He was trying to look relaxed, because Sam had told him that the guy he was meeting was a friend of a friend and had just moved to New York – he didn’t know a lot of people in the area and although Steve might not look like it, he was in fact, the person who knew people.

He had his own art gallery, paid for by his short but incredibly lucrative art career, and one of the side effects of having the gallery was that Steve knew pretty much everyone in New York worth knowing. He’d become well known for hosting some of the best opening nights for new artists, and one of the first in the city to show art from street artists – selling oversized sheets of drywall and launching that style into the homes of the upwardly mobile, modern crowds.

It was how he met Pepper Potts, and through her, Tony Stark. How he met the stunning Russian socialite Ms Romanov and the Pulitzer winning Clint Barton – he was invited to every event worth going to. And his ‘unique’ style of dressing had come under fire more than once. Mostly from Tony Stark – but that was a man who wore rose coloured aviators and purple suits, so Steve didn’t take it too seriously.

But Sam was his best friend and Steve listened to him. Which was why he was sitting at a bar wearing a suit that fit him, in a colour he normally only saw in paintings.

The thing was, Sam hadn’t really been able to tell Steve much about the guy he was meeting – because Sam didn’t know him. “He’s one of Reilly’s sisters friends.” Sam said, apologetically. “His name is Georges and he’s apparently big news in the shipping world. Honestly Steve, all I know is that he’s good looking and wears a lot of black.”

So Steve was waiting at the bar. Unthinking, he ran his finger around the collar of his shirt once again. The suit was too much, maybe? Maybe Steve should have just worn what he felt comfortable in. He kind of felt like he was dressed for a wedding. Or a funeral. Georges should have arrived about half an hour before, and Steve was starting to think that he’d been stood up, when a man hurried through the doors, looking around a little too quickly to just be arriving for a drink.

Sam was right.

He was wearing a lot of black.

A black suit that looked like it had been tailored specifically for him, a black vest – even his shirt and tie were black.

Sam was right.

He was  ** _incredibly_**  good looking. A square jaw, full lips – it was too far away to make out the colour of his eyes but they looked like they sparkled in the lighting – coupled with an obviously muscular build… Yes, Steve was quite happy to be set up on a blind date with  ** _this_**  guy. Taking a deep breath, he raised his hand to wave him over, trying to look like he was the successful New York socialite he was, rather a boy from Brooklyn who got lucky.

Georges saw him, and Steve held his breath for a second as the other man looked him over quickly. This was it – if he saw any kind of revulsion or disgust, he was going to see it in the first few seconds.

He smiled, and all the stress Steve had been unknowingly carrying in his shoulders seemed to seep out of him in one breath. The insanely good-looking friend of a friend didn’t seem disappointed that his blind date was probably half his size or that a stiff breeze would knock him over. He made his way over to Steve without ever taking his eyes off him.

“Hi!” He said, and Steve was a little surprised that his accent didn’t have a trace of his natural French tongue. “I thought you woulda left already. Traffic was a nightmare.”

“Well,” Steve said, hoping that his tone was more playful than nervous, “I did consider it, but the Scotch made the wait worth it.”

Georges laughed, head tipped back and exposing the long line of pale skin at his neck, which Steve wanted to feel under his lips. Yes, he was  ** _incredibly_**  happy with his blind date. “Just the scotch, huh?”

“I hear the brandy isn’t too bad either.” Steve conceded, which got him another laugh. His eyes were a deep blue, almost navy – and they did indeed sparkle in the low lighting. “But I’ve never tried it.”

“Well, I’m all for trying new things.” Georges said, eyes glittering as he looked Steve over again. “We should try new things together.”

* * *

 

They were seated in a booth with two oversized glasses of untouched top shelf between them, and Steve had been telling Georges about his latest show – and the nightmare artist he dealt with. “He showed up about half way through the night, drunk off his face, and refused to let people look at the art.” Steve recalled. Georges was smiling indulgently, leaning back into the booth with his body language wide open. Steve didn’t normally want to paint after the stress of his own collection burnt him out, but looking at Georges he found his fingers itch. He wondered if he could convince the man to let Steve paint him.

“Do you have to deal with that a lot in your line of work?” Georges asked, once he’d finished rolling his eyes in shared commiseration at the stupidity of people. “Arty types?”

“Arty types?” Steve repeated, grinning. “I own a gallery, it’s pretty much all I deal with, to be honest.” He shot Georges a look through his lashes as he smiled, hoping it looked the right mix of flirty and teasing.

“You own a gallery?” Georges asked, looking a little confused.

“Yeah,” Steve grinned, “Did Abbie not tell you?”

“Who?”

“Abbie?” Steve repeated, suddenly not feeling quite so confident about his smile, which he could see faltering on Georges face too. “Uh, Reilly’s sister?”

“Sorry,” Georges said, looking seriously confused. “I… uh… you are  ** _Peter_** , right? Nat’s friend Peter?”

* * *

 

Bucky just crashed some other guys blind date. He could tell the instant the same realisation dropped on Peter – no, not Peter! – because his whole expression changed. That smile, that fucking stunning smile that Bucky had been getting drunk on all night, faltered and fell, and Bucky wanted to just curl up and die a little. He’d not only cockblocked some random guy, but he’d also managed to do it to himself too.

“Uh, I’m going to assume you’re not Georges.” Peter (not Peter!) said, before laughing a little bitterly when Bucky mutely shook his head. He had no idea how to get himself out of this situation without looking like an idiot. “No, I didn’t think so. I’m, uh, I’m Steve. Steve Rogers.”

“James Barnes.  _Bucky_.” Bucky said, feeling… really fucking disappointed. He’d been so sure that this was a perfect date. He was wearing the stupid suit that Nat picked out, spent more money than he could remember ever spending on a single piece of clothing and honestly thought that this was it. This was the date that was going to result in a fucking great relationship. Especially since Peter (Steve!) was hot as hell and didn’t mind Bucky totally checking him out.

The smaller guy rubbed at the back of his neck nervously and Bucky wanted to crawl out of the booth and never leave the house again. “Well, uh, it looks like we’ve had a bit of a mix-up.” Bucky managed, trying to sound more jovial than he felt.

“Yeah,” Steve said, on a puff of air. “Sorry, I just assumed…”

“No, no, it’s okay, I mean, I was like – an hour late…”

“I’m pretty sure I got stood up.”

“Hey, at least we got a funny story out of it, yeah?” Bucky managed. He smiled.

“Yeah.” Steve agreed. “Pretty funny.”

* * *

 

“You’re so stupid Steve!” Sam said, once Steve got home, had a shower, slept for 8 hours and tried to ignore his phone for the better part of the morning. He should have known that Sam wouldn’t let something like Steve ignoring him put him off – he’d shown up at the door of Steve’s oversized studio apartment with some breakfast muffins and one cup of coffee. Steve tried to limit his caffeine intake because too much irritated his ulcer, but he did like the muffins that they sold in the coffee shop that Sam passed on the way to his apartment.

“This guy was  ** _obviously_**  in to you, and you didn’t even get his number?”

“He thought he was meeting someone else,” Steve pointed out. “He was disappointed when I wasn’t… who he thought.”

Sam rolled his eyes and took a sip of his coffee. “You could have made the most of it! I mean, he didn’t seem disappointed at first, did he?” A pointed look when Steve shook his head. “Only after, when he probably thought he’d ruined  ** _your_**  night.”

“I can’t do anything about it now.” Steve said, running his hands through his hair. “What are the chances of meeting him again?”

* * *

 

“I need a plus one.” Nat said, leaning back against her oversized throw pillows. She was still in bed, but Bucky had gotten used to being summoned to her side as she lounged in her silken negligées and satin robes.

“You have a million men who want to take you places.” He pointed out, grabbing at the toast she’d pushed to one side so she could read her mail. Bucky had known her all of his life, he’d been the only one who tried to talk her out of her marriage to Victor Romanov – a Russian billionaire who was obsessed with her from the moment he saw her perform on stage - but stood by her when she made up her mind. He died three weeks into their marriage (earning  ** _her_**  a rather notorious nickname) and now spent her time flitting around social events like it was her calling in life. She was a patron of the Ballet she once performed in, the head of several charities and was never seen without at least one attractive man vying for her attentions. Through it all though, Bucky had been there.

“Hmm.” She shrugged. “Petrov would take me, but I don’t like how smug he’s been getting recently.”

“S’cause he’s an asshole.” Bucky mumbled, crumbs landing on his t-shirt. He looked out of place in the fabulous bedroom – gold leaf fixtures and marble – in his scruffy jeans and faded tee. “He’s convinced he’s going to put a ring on your finger.”

Her laugh was bitter. A lot of men wanted to marry her – the Romanov fortune was getting larger by the hour, despite those who thought she was squandering it away – and it was a lure few could resist. “I heard that.” Her hand waved over him. “You can take me, wear the suit you bought. It’s the only thing you own that wouldn’t embarrass me.” A pause. “How did your date with Peter go?”

“Can we not talk about it?”

“Not now.” She said, sitting up. “Was he not nice? Barton said he’s nice.”

“He might have been.” Bucky shrugged, carefully noting that it had been one of  _Clint Barton’s_  friends that she had set him up with. “But I was late, and by the time I got there…” He shrugged. “I thought he was someone else, ended up crashing the wrong blind date.”

“How late were you?”

“About an hour.”

Her eye roll said everything that needed to be said. One of Clint’s friends too – and for all she never mentioned it, he knew that Natasha liked the journalist a  ** _lot_**  – which meant that she was going to have to apologise on his behalf. Which she hated to do. “An hour, James?” She sighed. “Fine, okay.” A wave of the hand brushed it away. “Tell me about this date you crashed.”

“Nothing much to it,” He shrugged. “Thought he was this Peter guy, and he wasn’t. He thought I was his date – we had a couple of drinks before we realised.” He didn’t add that he was nice, charming and sexy as hell. “So, yeah. Not so great.”

“Name?”

“Uh, Steve something. Rogers?”

“Steve Rogers?” Her tone was carefully flat, like she was squeezing all the emotion out of it.

“Yeah.” He said, watching her carefully. After a few seconds she picked up her mail again and started to read. “I’m going to have to apologise to Barton.” She reminded him coolly. “So you’ll be my plus one. Get a new suit – I know you can afford it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the one I  ** _just_**  bought.” He argued. Money wasn’t the issue -

“James Buchanan Barnes, I am not going to be seen on the arm of a man who wears the same suit every night he leaves the house.” A pause. “Dark grey or charcoal. Go to Fords.”

* * *

 

Steve’s trip to the tailors resulted in another suit he didn’t think he was ever going to wear. “It’s a black suit.” Sam pointed out, leaning back on Steve’s couch.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

The other man shrugged. “I make my own hours; it’s kind of the whole point in being the  ** _boss_**. Don’t think I can’t see you changing the subject.” He looked at the suit Steve had hanging on the back of the door. “What’s wrong about a black suit? Everyone has one. I have three.”

“You run a rehab clinic for famous people.” Steve shot back. “You’re  ** _always_**  in a suit.”

“I run a specialist city retreat that focuses on a healthy mind, body and soul.” Sam countered. “And it’s not  ** _just_**  for famous people. But yes, I own a lot of suits. You now own  ** _two_**. Grats – you’re almost an adult.” He smirked. “Wear it on Saturday.”

“I’m going to wear the blue one on Saturday.” Steve said, looking at the black suit with distaste. “I don’t want to look like I’m going to a funeral.”

“You wore the blue one on your not-a-date. People probably saw you. Wear the black.”

Steve looked down at his oversized t-shirt and faded jeans with a sigh. “I never wear a suit. People are going to make comments.”

“People already make comments. Most of them are about the hobo who shows up to the ‘HC’ acting like he owns the place.”

* * *

 

Natasha didn’t disapprove of the suit he’d bought, just rolled her eyes when he gave a sarcastic spin so she could take him all in. “I hope you’re happy.” He muttered. “I never spent this much on clothes in my life. I feel like an imposter. I feel like I’m wearing my dad’s clothes.”

“Shut up, James.” She said, as he helped her into the car he’d hired to take them to ‘The HC’ – an incredibly popular and expensive art gallery that Natasha loved. He’d heard about it in passing, but art wasn’t really his thing. He had a few prints in his penthouse apartment, but those had been bought by the interior decorator that he’d hired. He didn’t spend a lot of time there anyway – not with his new clients taking up so much of his time. He’d normally spend his Saturday nights at the office, but he’d promised Natasha he’d take her to make up for standing up Clint’s friend Peter – and she’d probably kill him if he cancelled. “Your father never owned a suit.”

“And he died a happy, happy man.” He shot back, shutting the door and walking around the car. He didn’t make faces when he did, because he was pretty sure she’d be able to tell, and filthy rich or not, she still gave the worst Chinese burn in Brooklyn.

* * *

 

Steve was proud of ‘The HC’. Its full name had been taken from a group of WWII soldiers, the Howling Commandoes, but most people just referred to the gallery as ‘The HC’. Steve hired four people on various shifts through the week, and although he did try to spend time of the floor, most of the time he was in the back office on the phone, trying to smooth over ruffled feathers or lighting fires under people – whatever was necessary to keep his gallery current and attractive to buyers. He’d been lucky so far, but he was more than aware that a couple of bad events would bring everything around his ears.

Tonight though, wasn’t going to be the night where that happened. The free champagne was a good enough quality that the guests felt flattered, and the layout was unusual and a little weird – keeping the guests moving around the room rather than just stagnating in groups. The artist was new – but Steve adored her work, she painted silks in a traditional style – but her subject matter was highly modern digital landscapes. He’d been trying to get her to reveal her work for some time, and was thrilled to be the first to show it. He could already see people carefully marking items they liked, and he knew Silk would be a massive success. Good news for her, and for him.

The cascading fabric gave the gallery a dream-like feel, and the subtle Asian music he’d picked to play complimented it wonderfully. He was very proud of his team for making it work – he made a mental note to bump up their bonuses.

It wasn’t just the silks that were getting people talking. His appearance in the ‘funeral suit’ had tongues wagging too – he’d been well known for his grungy dress sense.

“You look lovely tonight, Steve.” Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries and avid art collector said as she walked beside him. In her heels she towered over him, but she was one of few people who didn’t try to talk down to him. “Tony thinks he’s had a hand in this, please tell me he’s wrong.”

He laughed, and she gave him a warm smile in return. “It’s all Sam I’m afraid.” Steve told her, which got him an even warmer smile.

“Oh, will Sam be here?”

“He’s over by the green and pink ‘Distance of Webbing’ piece.” He advised, letting her drift off in that direction. Sam and Pepper had a close relationship ever since her husband Tony was admitted to Sam’s clinic. Although Steve didn’t know the details, he did know (along with all of New York) that Tony’s alcoholism had become a serious issue within their relationship, and Pepper finally put her foot down. Three years later, Tony Stark was a changed man, and Pepper remained firm friends with Sam.

Late arrivals were normally either time wasters or important patrons, and when the town car stopped at the doors, he sent up a silent prayer that it was the latter.  When the door was opened and Ms Romanov stepped out, he found himself letting out a puff of air. Although not the wealthiest of his patrons (Which would probably  ** _always_**  be the Starks) she was certainly worth him making sure that the moment she stepped into his gallery that he greeted her personally, a tray of fresh champagne poured and waiting. She normally had an attractive man or two on her arm – lately Petrov, whom Steve disliked – so he made sure there would be enough champagne around to keep her arm candy occupied while he showed her a few key pieces he thought she might particularly like.

“Steven,” She said, when the doors were opened for her arrival. “I’m late, of course.”

He smiled at the running joke – when he had first opened the gallery, he had locked the doors to late entries. Ms Romanov was a dancer and had arrived with her late husband. He had been furious, but his young wife (Natasha) had found the whole thing rather amusing, and Steve (after apologising profusely) now saw the funny side too.

“I was going to lock you out again, Ms Romanov.” He smiled, waving a hand for someone to take her coat. “But then I would be depriving myself of New York’s finest jewel.”

“Did you practice that?” She asked him dryly, slipping her thick coat from her shoulders. His answering wink made her smile. As one of the few people who made her smile, he took it as a victory. “James,” She said, looking over her shoulder, “James, come and meet Steven.” Looking back to him, she shot him a look he couldn’t even start to decipher, she shrugged. “James is a childhood friend of mine, you must know him. He owns ‘Asset’.”

Steve had heard of Asset, of course. On of New Yorks best PR firms – the company had a reputation for hushing up even the worst of scandals with barely a whisper. There had been rumours that it’s methods weren’t the best, but it worked. With some very high profile clients (including senators and big businesses like Hydra and Red Room) Steve was more than willing to smile and shake hands with James.

The man stepped forward, and Steve found himself almost tripping up over his feet. It was the same guy from the bar. Dressed to perfection, his hair swept back off his forehead, he looked good enough to eat. “Perhaps you already know him?” Natasha said, and Steve found himself nodding.

James was looking at him with those full lips slightly parted, like a greeting had died half way from his mouth, before he held out his hand and smiled.

“Nice to see you again, Steve.”

“Uh…” Steve stammered, just for a moment before his ‘work’ brain kicked in and he smiled. “It certainly is.”

* * *

 

Steve was wearing a black suit that looked like it had been moulded onto him, and Bucky was having trouble unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth Steve looked  ** _that_**  good. Damnit, Natasha must have known that the Steve he’d mentioned on his failure of a date was the same Steve that ran the damn gallery she was always going on about. He wasn’t sure if he should glare or thank her – he’d never have lived it down if he’d worn the same suit. Steve obviously was a sharp dresser – the blue suit he’d worn was unusual and made him stand out, and the tailoring in the suit he had on was just… damn. Bucky was going to have to up his game.

“Oh, is that Pepper?” Natasha said, breaking him out of his internal panic. “I need to talk to her.”

For a moment, Steve looked like he wanted to stop her going, but that didn’t work with Bucky’s plan on getting him alone, so he stepped forward. “You know, I’m not really big on this arty stuff.” He admitted. “But I’ve got a pretty large foyer that could do with a statement piece.”

He tried to ignore Natashas snort as she walked past him, “Large  ** _foyer_** , huh? Is that what the kids are calling it these days.” Under her breath. If Steve heard, he didn’t show it.

“Oh, well, Silk is a new artist, she’s doing wonderful things right now – her larger pieces are just over here.” Steve said, stepping back so Bucky could follow him.

“I knew I should have asked for your number.” Bucky said, as they walked. Steve obviously knew a lot of people – everyone wanted to talk to him as they worked through the crowd. “You seem like the man to know.”

Steve smiled warmly – Bucky was going to call that a win. The night was certainly shaping up to be a win in his book.

* * *

 

“Shit!” Steve said, barrelling through his apartment. “What the hell was I thinking?” On the end of the line, Sam was laughing.

“You got a date with a hot guy.” His best friend crowed. “What you panicking for?”

“Sam you didn’t see him.” Steve whined. “He looks like a walking GQ centrefold. He’s probably got a suit for every day of the week.”

“Make an appointment with Antonio.” Sam suggested. “He liked you. Said you had European lines.”

“It took him two weeks to get the suit out to me!” Steve whined. “I’m seeing him tomorrow!”

“I’ll make a few calls.”

* * *

 

“Shit!” Bucky whined, looking through his wardrobe while Natasha lounged on his bed. She had just come back from a meeting with her late husband’s nephew, and the greedy SOB always managed to stress her out. She was eating a pint of ice-cream from his freezer and watching him freak out with an amused expression.

“This is better than therapy.” She advised him with a smirk. “I’m telling you, Steve isn’t going to care if you don’t have a suit for your date.”

“Did you  ** _see_**  him?” Bucky snapped. “He’s one of those tiny little Italian men who have a closet of colour coded suits for every occasion.”

“He’s not.”

“He is.” Bucky whined. “I need a suit. A nice suit.”

“I know a man.” She told him. “But Steve is-”

A wave of his hand cut her off. “What man?”

* * *

 

The restaurant was nice. Not the kind of place Steve brought artists, and too high end for his normal dates. But Bucky was the head of a fortune 500 and Steve felt like he needed to up his game, so he’d booked a table. He was pretty sure his suit still had pins in it, Antonio had been happy to see him but  ** _not_**  about the short notice. However, the dark navy fabric was fitted to perfection and he didn’t feel like the red-headed step-child sitting across from Bucky in his black and silver pinstripe. They talked about everything and anything, and Steve was able to make it through the meal without once pulling on his shirt collar.

* * *

 

By their 5th date, Bucky was starting to think that he needed to get shares in his tailors. He spent longer in fittings than he did with clients, and for some reason Natasha found this hilarious.

“But it’s  ** _Steve_**!” She said, watching him struggle with his vest buttons. “Steve  ** _Rogers_**.”

“I am aware of his name.” He growled. “I’m the one dating him.”

“Does he wear suits on your dates?” She asked, licking the spoon clean.

“No, ‘Tash,” He replied, rolling his eyes. “He wears pyjamas. Of course he wears suits. What the hell else would he wear?”

* * *

 

Steve was painting. He didn’t do it often and actually found himself wondering why. He dimly remembered the stress of his first gallery showing, how ill he had become with his ulcers and headaches – how he’d thrown up just thinking about picking up a paintbrush or charcoal for months after.

But now, as he looked at his half-finished sketches he’d been working on some nights, the hasty blocking on canvas, all he felt was peace. His studio in the apartment had high ceilings and wall to wall windows that let in all the natural light he needed – and in his bare feet and faded jeans, he felt for the first time in a long time,  ** _happy_**.

His t-shirt had been the first casualty, so he’d tossed it to the side, and carried on. His pale skin was paint speckled but warm with the sun bathing him in light. He felt like a plant, growing towards the warmth, and under his brush life burst out in technicolour swirls, twisting and leaning. He was a million miles away when he heard Sam enter the apartment – the click of the key he had cut years ago when Steve had just moved in seemed far away and dull compared to the colour at the end of his fingertips.

He heard him move around – the door of the studio was ajar – but Steve didn’t stop painting. Luckily, Sam had known him for a long time, and understood Steve’s creative process included him ignoring everything (sometimes even eating) in favour of getting his vision pinned down.

He could hear Sam talking on the phone, a conversation that he couldn’t pay much attention to when his whole world was a pinprick of colour and movement – but after a while, he started to come back to himself. The canvas was no longer a blank page, but a real, living thing. It wasn’t anything like his previous work, more organic, older, less refined and more alive than anything he could remember doing.

Putting his brush down, he found himself smiling. He probably wouldn’t ever want to show his own stuff again, but he certainly thought it was the best thing he’d ever done. The sounds that he’d been aware of distantly came back into focus, Sam laughing in the kitchen, the sound echoing slightly with the high ceilings and open spaces. Another laugh.

Steve jolted like he’d been electrocuted – he was standing in a pair of jeans that he’d had for nearly 10 years, barefoot and shirtless (his birdlike chest wasn’t something he liked to show off – sex with the lights out was his favourite position for a reason) and covered in paint. A million mils away from Bucky and his impeccable suits, his hair styled perfectly… Steve wanted to die. Sam should have known, he thought angrily, Sam should have told him – warned him. Steve couldn’t have painted in a suit, but he could have put something else on… Standing in his bare feet, he wracked his brain to think of what he could wear. The only thing he had that didn’t look like he’d got it from a thrift store were his new suits. He didn’t have  ** _anything_**  else to wear.

He had two options, he either pulled on his soaked t-shirt that had been sitting rolled into a ball in a corner for most of the day, or he could brazen it out and give up on the hope that Bucky might want to sleep with him at some point in their new relationship. Steve knew that he wasn’t  ** _repulsive_** , but his body wasn’t anything to write home about, and he preferred to keep it covered if there was a chance of people seeing him. Especially people he  ** _liked_**.

He didn’t have a choice though. His sun warmed skin crawled at the thought of pulling the clammy Tee back on, and he was already covered in flecks of drying paint. If Bucky was so put off, then maybe their relationship wasn’t what Steve was looking for.

* * *

 

Bucky had been freaking out. He’d been at the office all night, wearing his comfortable clothes because his clients didn’t care what he wore as long as he got the job done, and he had no chance of running into Steve at work.

He didn’t take into consideration that he’d run into Sam Wilson (Steve’s best buddy and all-around nice guy) on his way home. He’d been in a world of his own, waiting on his coffee order and thinking about wither or not Hydra was worth the trouble they were causing him (he was convinced he saw a grey hair last time he looked in the mirror) when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey, James?” Someone asked, voice warm, and when he turned, Sam Wilson was there. He was wearing a nice pair of slacks and a checked shirt, and Bucky knew in comparison he looked like a hobo. “I thought it was you!” Sam grinned. “Only one guy in all of New York can pull off a top bun like that.” He was polite enough not to mention the state of Bucky’s clothes, he was pretty sure his tee had a hole in the hem. He’d never met Sam without Steve around, which meant he’d only ever been dressed nicely before. “I’m about to head over to see Steve, grab a couple of muffins and he’ll love you forever.”

And that was how Bucky had been very neatly railroaded into visiting the sharpest dressed man in New York wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and a pair of jeans older than the barista who served him.

It was also how he found Steve Rogers, the sharpest dresser in New York, wearing a pair of jeans that had been washed so often that Bucky could actually see the light from the massive oversized windows shining through the cotton, barefoot and shirtless and completely zoned out. He didn’t seem to respond at all to Sam’s shout of their arrival, and after watching him for a few moments, Bucky understood why.

Steve Rogers was a fucking  ** _angel._**

His pale skin was shining like he was lit from the inside – glowing like a damn beacon of truth, freedom and the American way. His hair was messy around his head and in the bright sunlight it seemed like it was a halo around his ears and Bucky had never in his life seen a man look beautiful like Steve Rogers with a paintbrush in his hand.

“Probably best to just leave him till he’s done.” Sam had said, and Steve didn’t seem to hear him. “He’ll be useless until he snaps out of it.”

So he’d spent the afternoon sitting on Steve’s couch in his massive loft, surrounded by some of the most stunning pieces of art he’d ever seen. “Sometimes he trades his stuff with other artists.” Sam said, when he caught him looking. “I’m pretty sure a lot of this stuff has never been in a gallery.”

There were pictures too – Bucky had never been inside Steve’s place. They’d met places, had dinners and went to the opera even, but he’d always picked Steve up from a car, or met him there. To see inside was like getting a look at the person. And it turned out the person wasn’t… well…

The pictures were framed. Steve smiling nervously, looking like he wanted to throw up in one, wearing what looked like the same jeans he was still wearing to paint in, and an oversized hoodie. “That was the night he opened his first show.” Sam said, as Bucky’s eyes got snagged on the younger man in the frame. “Man, he puked his guts up every day for a month on the lead up to that.”

“Looks different now.” Bucky commented.

“Meh.” Sam shrugged. “Still dresses like a frat boy unless he’s freaking out over meeting  ** _you_**.” A laugh at Bucky’s confused expression, “And then it’s all chalk lines and pin tucks and if you’ll notice that he’s really freaking uncomfortable in a suit.” Sam looked him up and down and Bucky was hyper aware he looked like that emo kid in highschool that never did quite grow up, in his fade tee and jeans. “I wanna be here when he realises he shouldn’t have worried.”

A few hours later, when Bucky realised that Sam was definitely the kind of guy he’d want in his corner, Steve walked out of the studio. His pale skin was liberally splattered with colourful paint and Bucky wondered if it was too soon to pin him down and trace the lines between them with his fingers and mouth, if Steve’s mussed up hair felt as soft as it looked, if he’d been biting his bottom lip to get it looking swollen and kissable. He looked at Bucky with big eyes, and blinked.

“Is that my shirt?” He asked, sounding a little annoyed, and Bucky laughed.

* * *

 

“You still look like a power couple.” Natasha remarked as Bucky found her in the crowded gallery. She’d shown up with Clint Barton (just friends, she smiled, just friends) and looked stunning as normal. “I thought once you’d both realised your love of looking like homeless people you’d revert back eventually.”

“Ha.” Bucky said, tonelessly. “So funny. Actually,” he said, grabbing a glass of champagne as the server walked past and handing it to her, “We had a talk and kinda like dressing up a little.”

He didn’t add that the suits didn’t stay on long once the doors were closed – because Steve in a suit did  ** _things_**  to him – but he knew she could tell from his overly smug expression.

“Disgusting.” She snorted, looking away.

His laugh turned a few heads, but the only one he cared about was already making its way towards him.

“Hey.” Steve smiled. He was wearing the same blue suit he’d been wearing the night they met. “I’m waiting for a hot guy in black – it’s not you, is it?”

“Disgusting.” Natasha said, fondly, as Bucky grinned like an idiot and kissed his husband on the lips.

**Author's Note:**

> After how popular Crossroads was, I think this will fall flat.  
> But I gotta keep going!
> 
> A very, very awful Nonny of Tumblr suggested that as my pen name is 74days, that really, 50 meet-cute AU's is just a weird number and shouldn't it really be 74 meet-cutes?  
> And now it's all I can think about.  
> So... there might be more of these than originally expected. 
> 
> Blame the nonny.
> 
> (The Prompt was: I was told my date would be hot and wearing black – it’s not you, is it?)


End file.
